


down among the reeds and rushes

by evewithanapple



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis resists the urge to throw his hands in the air, wondering how it is that he’s being outsmarted by a three-year-old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	down among the reeds and rushes

**Author's Note:**

> The most shameless kidfic fluff you've ever read. I APOLOGIZE FOR NOTHING.
> 
> For more information on who the heck these kids are, go [here](http://hedgehogjesus.co.vu/post/78418298808/ladysaviours-list-of-dartagnan-and-constances).

“Why do people have blood?”

“Because people have four humours, and blood is one of them,” Aramis replies. “Why are you thinking about blood, anyway?”

Genevieve props her chin on her fist and frowns at him. “Because I saw some when Alexandre fell and cut his face. Why do people have four humours?”

“Because God made them that way.”

“Why?”

“Because they balance each other and keep people from getting sick.”

“Then why do people get sick?”

Aramis does not like where this conversation is going. “Because sometimes the humours become unbalanced.”

Genevieve’s frown deepens. “Why does God let that happen?”

Aramis resists the urge to throw his hands in the air, wondering how it is that he’s being outsmarted by a three-year-old. “Because His ways aren’t meant for people to understand.”

“That means he doesn’t know,” says Marie-Marguerite from her perch on Porthos’s knee. Porthos chuckles, and she casts a reproachful look at him. “You’re jostling my arm.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He peers over her shoulder at the alphabet she’s been carefully inscribing on her sheet of parchment. “Looks good, though.”

Marie-Marguerite frowns, looking from the list of letters her mother wrote out for her to copy, and back to the version she’d reproduced. “No it doesn’t. It’s all wrong.”

Porthos huffs. “Are you saying I don’t know how to read?”

“No, look.” She points. “Maman wrote the  _B_  so that it’s round, and mine is all wobbly. It’s not right.”

Aramis leans over to look at it. “It looks fine to me.” He pats her hand. “Your hand will steady with practice.” On his right, Genevieve is clambering over his lap to see her sister’s work.

“Then I’ll keep practicing,” Marie-Marguerite says, and returns to re-drawing the B. Genevieve squirms on Aramis’s knee. “Can I see Olivier now?”

He pats her head gently. “When your mother says you can.”

She scowls. "Maman and Papa and the doctor can see him, so why can't I?"

Aramis exchanges a helpless look with Porthos over her head. Porthos picks up Genevieve and sets her on the knee Marie-Marguerite isn't already occupying. "Because your maman and papa and the doctor are with him to see that he recovers properly, and if you see him now, you might get sick too. You don't want to get sick, do you?"

Genevieve crosses her arms, bottom lip wobbling. "I want to  _see him_ ," she says, with a note in her voice that makes Aramis fear that she's about to begin howling and bring her parents running. They have one sick, fussy child on their hands already; they don't need the two of them crying in chorus. Fortunately, whatever tantrum Genevieve was preparing herself to throw is interrupted as the door crashes open and her older brother hurries in, Athos on his heels. His face is dirty, and he's beaming. "I won the duel!"

"He also fell on his face several times," Athos says dryly, "but never mind." He pulls out the chair next to Porthos and drops into it. Alexandre stands on his toes and drops the wooden practice sword he was using on the table; at Athos’s raised eyebrow, he sighs and removes it, wandering off to put it away where it’s meant to be stored.

“What news?” he asks. Aramis raises a finger to his lips, gesturing at Genevieve and Marie-Marguerite. “None. They’re still upstairs.”

Genevieve perks up. “Maman?”

Aramis sighs.

 

* * *

 

 

Alexandre is allowed to stay overnight at the garrison on occasion, so Athos and Porthos take him back with them after supper. Genevieve pouted, and Marie-Marguerite mildly pointed out that it was unfair that her brother got to stay at the garrison when she wasn’t.

“You’re quite right,” Aramis agrees. “But until they create an army of women musketeers and a women’s barracks to go with it, I’m afraid there’s very little to be done about it.”

“I want to be a woman musketeer!” says Genevieve. Aramis has a brief vision of Genevieve, still only as tall as his knees, charging the enemy with her brother’s toy sword. It is a sight that would strike fear into the heart of the bravest man. He does not think sharing this sentiment would be appreciated, however, so he merely ushers the girls upstairs to go to bed.

Marie-Marguerite acquiesces quietly to changing into her nightgown and crawling under the covers; Aramis often wonders how a pair as tempestuous as d’Artagnan and Constance ever produced such a quiet child. Once in bed, she pulls the quilt up to her chin and looks at Aramis with solemn eyes. “Does God answer all of my prayers?”

This, Aramis thinks, is why he left the seminary. “All those he can, _bichette_.”

She wriggles a little under the blankets. “Can he make Olivier well?”

Aramis takes a deep breath. There is no way out of this conversation that will end well. “If he wills it.”

Marie-Marguerite nods, then turns over on her side and closes her eyes. If she prays, she does it silently. He turns to Genevieve, who has also gotten into her nightgown, but is still sitting on top of the covers with a mutinous look on her face. “Maman and Papa always tuck us in before bed.”

“You’ll have to settle for me, then,” Aramis says, as cheerfully as he can.

Genevieve’s scowl only deepens. “No.”

Aramis sits down on the bed and pulls her to sit on his lap. “Come now, little one, you’ll see them in the morning.”

“I want to see them _now_ ,” she says. “Olivier too.”

He sighs. “Will you sleep if I tell you a story?”

She only glares. Her lower lip is wobbling again, and he suspects that this time, he is not going to be rescued by a fortuitous entrance. Nor can he, in any sort of good conscience, tell a small child that her presence would be too worrisome for her parents to deal with.

He sets her back down on the bed and stands. “I’ll speak to them and see what I can do.”

 

* * *

 

The crying noises in d’Artagnan and Constance’s room have ceased- or, at the very least, they can’t be heard through the door- and when he pushes the door open, he sees why: the baby has, apparently, worn himself out from crying all day and finally gone to sleep, his head nestled against his mother’s collarbone. Constance is sitting by the window, her face lit up by the lamp; she looks like the Madonna. d’Artagnan is seated across from her, head balanced precariously on his hand, looking like he's about to fall asleep and fall off the chair at any moment. Neither look like they've slept in the past week.

Aramis clears his throat, and they both look up, blinking at the sudden intrusion. "Pardon me," he says, "but I'm afraid Genevieve is refusing to sleep without seeing you first, and-"

"Maman!" There's a blur of white by his feet, and Genevieve- who must have crept behind him down the hall- flings herself at her mother's knees. Constance's eyes widen in alarm, but the baby in her arms stays quiet except for a few snuffles as his sister pulls herself up into her mother's lap and flings both arms around her neck. Without being asked, d'Artagnan stands quickly and takes Olivier from his wife. 

"You didn't say goodnight," Genevieve says reproachfully.

Constance hugs her daughter close, burying her face in her hair. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

Genevieve pouts and wriggles on her mother's lap, but is apparently appeased. "Is Olivier better now?"

"He's sleeping," d'Artagnan says softly. "You can see him, if you like. Just be careful you don't wake him."

Genevieve leans from her mother's lap to peer at the baby in her father's arms. "His face is shiny."

"It's sweat," Constance says. "Because he's feverish. His skin is too warm."

Genevieve's eyes light up. "His humours are wrong!"

Constance and d'Artagnan both stare at her. "Where in the world did you-" Constance begins, before her eyes narrow and she looks at Aramis. Aramis, for his part, stares at the ceiling. "Well, never mind." She smooths a hand down her daughter's hair. "You should be in bed, Genevieve. Kiss your father goodnight, and we'll see you tomorrow morning, all right?"

Genevieve bites her lip. "All right." She hugs her mother, kisses her cheek, then slides down from her lap and toddles over to her father. "Goodnight, Papa."

"Goodnight, chère." d'Artagnan picks her up, one-armed, and kisses her forehead. "Sleep well."

When he sets her down, she patters across the floor, past Aramis, and back down the hall to her bedroom. Aramis remains in the doorway, eyebrows raised at d'Artagnan and Constance. "You know, I can't decide which of you she gets it from."

"Both of us, I expect," d'Artagnan says dryly. He looks down at Olivier in his arms, and a soft smile breaks over his face. "I think his fever's starting to break."

"I'm glad to hear it." Aramis nods to the both of them before closing the door quietly and retreating to the children's room. Genevieve has already climbed into bed, and is curled up next to her sister, eyes closed. Marie-Marguerite is already sleeping, breaths slow and even. Aramis smiles at the both of them and blows the candle out.

**Author's Note:**

> "Bichette" = French for "little doe."


End file.
